


I know I'm sleeping away every sunrise (but at night I'm alright with you)

by BatWingsandBlackCats



Series: The Neverending Playlist [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Hollstein - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatWingsandBlackCats/pseuds/BatWingsandBlackCats
Summary: Three centuries of trauma doesn’t fade so quickly, and Carmilla still has bad days.But Laura’s always there when she does.
Relationships: Laura Hollis/Carmilla Karnstein
Series: The Neverending Playlist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1278101
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	I know I'm sleeping away every sunrise (but at night I'm alright with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! It’s been a WHILE but I’m still kickin’ around in the Carmilla fandom, just more on the passive side these days. Also writer's block is a bitch and I haven’t been able to write much in the last couple years. 
> 
> BUT. I’ve had this fic sitting in my documents—literally finished and edited—for months, and I just never got around to posting it. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by Palehound’s song At Night I’m Alright With You
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well and staying safe, and I hope you all enjoy!

Carmilla still has bad days.

It’d been years since the pit, since the smoke and the blood and the pain, since Maman, since the near end of the world. Since Laura’s heart was ripped out and then restored. 

Her and Laura are happy, happy in their little apartment. Their little apartment in Toronto with the wide planked floors and the old stained glass windows that remind them of their first room together at Silas. Carmilla’s small collection of art on the walls, her old, tattered books on the shelves amidst Laura’s little figurines and DVD boxes and movie posters. Carmilla’s candles illuminating the corners of their apartment, casting wavering shadows along the walls, light reflected in wide windows. 

Their routine of going to the coffee shop down the street in the morning, fingers always laced, Carmilla’s eyelids heavy, quiet words exchanged in the corner by the window, their favorite table. 

Laura had loved the windows when they’d first seen the apartment, knowing the wondrous look that would shine in Carmilla’s eyes when the sun went down and the stars came out. 

They’re so happy and they’re so achingly in love Carmilla can hardly stand it sometimes. 

But Carmilla still has bad days. 

The frequency has lessened, but three centuries of trauma doesn’t fade so quickly, and Carmilla sometimes finds herself trapped in the warmth of their bed, the outside feeling far to cold and bright and stimulating to bear. 

Laura understands. She doesn't push. She did at first, but she soon found out that that only caused the numbness to sink further into Carmilla's bones. Only made it harder for her to eventually surface again. 

So Laura just goes about her day on these bad days, checks in on Carmilla and makes sure she eats, brushes her hair back and kisses her head when she finds Carmilla asleep. 

Sometimes Carmilla is able to pull herself from their bed, and instead finds herself on the couch, or in the armchair in the spare room-turned-library, wrapped in a blanket, nose in a book. Laura’s heart lifts when she sees that. It’s a good sign, seeing Carmilla back at something she loves so much. 

Carmilla doesn't speak much on these bad days. Carmilla is often quiet, but this kind of quiet still unsettles Laura. It's not just the lack of talking or snarking or flirting, it's the stillness in Carmilla's contemplative stare, the way her brows don't quirk up when she senses the opportunity for a sarcastic quip. When she sometimes doesn't immedistely respond to her name. It's the painful, vacant flicker in her dark eyes. 

One thing that doesn't change when Carmilla has bad days, is touch. Carmilla has always been tactile, preferring the wrinkled pages of a book over a screen, the static and crackle of an LP to an mp3. Small touches to let Laura know she's there. The brush of her fingers along Laura's shoulders. A hand through Laura's hair, a fleeting kiss on her temple. Ankles hooked beneath the table. 

That doesn't change when Carmilla goes quiet and her eyes betray her age. If anything it becomes more frequent. The squeeze of a hand, the brush of her fingers. A kiss at the corner of Laura's mouth. Laura knows she's reaching out, partly to quell Laura's worries, partly to ground herself. 

Laura holds her when she sees the want in Carmillad eyes, hugs her from behind when Carmilla's making tea, coaxes her into her lap when they're on the couch. 

She knows when not to touch, where not to touch. It took time to learn, but she knows. She knows the phantom pains Carmilla gets in her shoulder, echoes of an arrow, between her ribs, echoes of a dagger. Sometimes Carmilla doesn't mind being touched there. Sometimes she welcomes it. Sometimes Laura will hold Carmilla from behind beneath their blankets, thumb brushing along the short, thin scar between her ribs below her left breast, pressing kisses to the back of her neck, whispering soft words. 

Sometimes Laura wakes up in the middle of the night to Carmilla holding her almost a little too tightly, Carmilla's ragged breathing against her neck. For as old as Carmilla is, and how much Carmilla has opened up over the years, Laura knows that carmilla wishes some of her insecurities were left alone. So Laura just wraps her hand around Carmilla's, squeezes, and doesn't speak as she feels Carmilla relax around her, her breathing slow and steady again. She smiles when she feels Carmilla's lips press against the nape of her neck, Carmilla's nose nuzzling into her hair. 

When Carmilla pulls herself out of bed, Laura follows with cautious optimism. She doesn't lunge like she used to, doesn't immediately grab Carmilla by the hand, doesn't assume this means it's over. She presses a hot cup of coffee into Carmilla's hands, something gentle and sensory, and when Carmilla's finished, she coaxes her into her most worked-in combat boots and leads her outside. 

For as much as Carmilla gripes about the cold, she does enjoy the fall. Laura knows this. Laura leads her along the paths they've walked so many times in the park down the street, their fingers laced, gentle and steadfast. She watches as Carmilla's eyes brighten, even just a little, and she feels something settle inside. She gently pulls Carmilla to a stop for a moment, and leans up and kisses her. 

Carmilla tastes of copper and chocolate. 

When night falls, Laura watches as tension leaves Carmilla's shoulders. Watches as her dark eyes drift towards the wide windows in their bedroom, to the stars scattered across the velvet sky. She can feel some of the aching leave Carmilla's body. 

Carmilla feels a little more herself as she slips under the covers beside Laura, curls close to her, feels Laura's beating heart against her own chest, feels her soft breath over her neck. 

"Are you alright?" Laura murmurs, lips brushing against Carmilla's neck, arms winding around her, fingers tracing patterns on her soft skin beneath her shirt. 

"I'm alright, with you," Carmilla says softly, cool hands holding Laura close, holding her like a lifeline, like a reminder.

Not every day will feel like this. 

But when they do, she's safe. 

She's alright. 


End file.
